Pull me from this winter coma
March, you vex me.
You are a tease, a taunt, a passive agressive yes and no and not yet. The only way to get through this passage bridging winter and spring is to eat, drink, nap, and read. It was in the throes of these vices that I found March Afternoon, a poem by Sandy Longhorn.
Stun me, she writes. Pull me from this winter coma.
Can she call it, or what?
March Afternoon
Emergency flare of a sun,
an empty sky.
Wind gusts ruffle the remains of last year's tall grasses —
the stand of ornamental pampas
and the pond rushes gone brown and dry.
I am talking to the hawk and the horizon when I say:
Stun me.
Pull me from this winter coma.
Cleave me open
like sod split by the plow.
Lay me bare.
The red wasps hang in the air,
dangerous question marks.
The sun slides toward the tree line,
collides with a forming cloud —
a muscular light blooms.
— Sandy Longhorn
from Blood Almanac
Wednesday, March 9, 2011 at 12:16PM
Reader Comments (3)
In Arizona, March is the direct passage to summer. March is the loveliest of all months, I believe. We need March. We keep it in our grasp as long as we can because the moment it slips away, we are thrown into an oven and baked until we melt away. It's perhaps as hard to have this chronic sun as it is for you and your very frightful winter coma. I wish us both the best.
Aw, Drew! Thanks for posting this and sharing the poem. I'm waiting to be stunned right now!
- Oh Auburn, I think I need a writing retreat in Arizona, just a little break to touch sun-soaked life. Thanks for the perspective.
- Sandy, thank YOU for writing such a pitch-perfect, weather-telling poem. "Stun me" is my new mantra.